The Path of Daggers
by Hawki
Summary: Oneshot: The butcher's knife cared not for the lamb's cry. But Sylvanas was quite willing to wield the blade.


**The Path of Daggers**

There's an old insult for elves – "donkey ears."

It's a joke that's oh so hilarious, and one that didn't become old three millennia ago. Elves have pointy ears. Humans use donkeys. Donkeys have floppy ears. Ergo, donkey ears. It's an insult that Sylvanas Windrunner has heard of, even if never being subjected to it herself. She did her job as ranger-general. She stayed true to the realm of Quel'Thalas, even while her sisters gallivanted off to other worlds, or shared beds with lesser creatures. Insults are like water on rock, or so her mother once told her. They wash over you, and can only seep into your pores if you let them.

She doesn't know why she's thinking of that now, marching under the banner of the Scourge across this ruined land. Over the last few months, more and more, her mind's begun to wander. More and more, her mind has become her, well, mind. She can think of her mother, her father, her siblings – all of them dead or likely so, which leaves her as the last of the Windrunner Clan, walking around in this rotting body that mocks her bloodline. She can think of stones as well – the stones that the walls of Silvermoon were built with. White marble, gleaming in the sun, that she was forced to tear down with her screams. With every shout, her people were deafened. With every scream, she went to cry, but there were no tears to shed in the ethereal form of a banshee. And even after having her spirit forced back into her body by the one who'd taken her life in the first place, after screaming as this perversion of the natural cycle was carried out upon her…she found she had no tears to shed.

The water is gone. The blood is gone. All that is left is a puppet, free of wood, if not strings. The first of the dark rangers, if not the last. Marching at the vanguard of the Scourge, in service to Prince, sorry, _King _Arthas of Lordaeron. Ruler of a broken kingdom, now securing it by driving out the living. Not because he has to, Sylvanas notes, but because he can. Because it's perhaps the only thing that can bring him joy. It's foolish to think that the people who still call Lordaeron home could be of any threat to him, but Sylvanas knows Arthas. She dares to think that she knows him better than any in the Scourge (granted, there's not much in this shuffling mass of death that can actually think). She saw the look in his eyes when he took her life. It was the same look that was in them when he forced her spirit back into her corpse. The word sadism comes to mind, but that is far too generous. Arthas Menethil, son of Terenas, has become no different from the demons he drove out a week ago. If anything, he's worse. Demons, for all their depravity, are slaves to their nature. Arthas is slave to none but the Lich King, and even then, his strings are long.

As is this march. This week-long "scourging." The undead require neither sustenance nor rest, and they have attacked at night and day both. They're at the border of Alterac now, or at least, what was once Alterac. It was a kingdom destroyed in the war before this one, proving that the humans were scarce better than the orcs they fought against, and that King Anasterian was right to pull his kingdom out of the Alliance. But it's in the ruins of that kingdom that the living may find shelter. It's further south of that kingdom where Dalaran stands – retaken by the Alliance, and used as their last bastion in these lands. Perhaps Arthas is afraid that if the people flee to Dalaran, the defenders' numbers will be bolstered. Or, more likely, he simply wants to have his fun and be done with it. Even though he's already stated his intention to march on Dalaran eventually. To finish what he started, and Archimonde supposedly finished. That he wants to finish the work of a demon, as if he envisages the Scourge being a horror more potent than even the Legion…that has filled her unbeating heart with dread.

But before that, the attack. Walls, homesteads, stables, guard towers…it's either a fort that's been turned into a town, or a town that's been turned into a fort. The banners of Lordaeron are still flying, and there's no shortage of sheep, and not just those with wool. They look upon the village, and Sylvanas dares glance at her contemporaries. Kel'Thuzad, hovering there in silent, ever the loyal sycophant of the butcher who leads them. And Arthas himself. Frowning. A fist is pressed to his chest, though she can see no sign of a wound. Is he in pain, she wonders? If so, from what? Certainly it's not the pain of the heart that she's felt for well over a year. If he is wounded though, she can't finish it. The strings are too tight. Yet, she reflects, that the notion is even able to enter her mind at all is surprising. Some in the Scourge are granted more freedom than others, but all ultimately serve the Lich King. Yet here she is. Toying with rebellion. Nooking her arrow, and entertaining the notion of sending it through the prince's skull.

It doesn't happen. With nary a word, the order is given. _Attack._

She moves forward with the Scourge, heading forward to get a good firing position on the fort/town. The ghouls, the skeletons, the zombies…they shamble forward without rhyme or reason. The Scourge has numbers on its side, as its ranks are swelled with each victory. It can afford to send unthinking hordes upon its foes and wear them down over time. She, as a dark ranger, is given more latitude. She cannot refuse to take part in this attack, but she can choose how to do it. So she finds a nice boulder that stands above the plain, gets atop it, and surveys the scene. The sheep are blowing a horn. Their gates are barred. Archers are firing from their walls and towers. She lets loose one of her arrows, and sends one of the sheep falling backwards. He's the first, but he won't be the last. And by the setting of the sun, all will be raised in service to Arthas. To their king, who still claims lordship over this realm.

She doesn't count how many of the sheep she kills, for the butcher's knife cares not for the lamb's cry. The Scourge is now at the walls – skeletons banging on the gate, ghouls trying to climb up the walls, the zombies just mulling around as the mindless automatons that they are. Bodies are already piling up at the base of the walls. Pitch is cast over them, setting the undead alight. She can't smell it, any more than she can taste or feel, but she can imagine the stench. She was familiar with it even before Arthas razed her homeland to the ground. And while this isn't Silvermoon, she knows how this will play out. Abominations lumber to the gate. She can see the sheep let loose arrow, shot, and oil upon them, and accomplish nothing. The shambling monstrosities batter at the gate with their chains and hooks, and before long, an opening is made. And with a speed that catches the sheep off-guard, the walking dead move forward to exploit it.

_Forward._

There's his voice again.

_Forward!_

It's a voice that sounds uniquely directed to her. As if he…She bites her lips, and looks at the command line. Where Arthas and his majordomo remain, alongside their royal guard. It's as if he knows, she reflects. As if he's aware that his grip over her, and over his forces, is slipping. She nooks another arrow, and once again, considers letting it fly towards her tormenter.

_Forward._

But it is not to be. She hears the voice. Her chains are pulled. And once more, she is forced to enter the fray.

* * *

It's nearly over by the time she gets to the other side of the walls. The living are making their last stand, but it does them no good. For every one of their number that falls, a necromancer is there to make sure they rise in service to the Scourge. For every undead warrior they manage to fell, six more are there to take its place. She could fire blindly into the swarm of bodies, and even if she killed one living for every ten dead, it would be a fair trade. But, she doesn't do that. Her bow is slung over her shoulder, and she has taken out two short-swords. Both of them of elvish design, both of which were carried by her in another life. Used against the enemies of her people. Now used in service to the creatures who butchered them.

The sheep try to attack her, showing an initiative that she didn't foresee. They can tell that she isn't some mindless drone, and perhaps they think that if they return her rotting body to the ground, other undead might follow. It's a belief that has some basis, and if not for the presence of Arthas, it might work. But that's assuming that they can manage it, and so far, they've failed to do so. She may be undead, but her speed, her reflexes, they have not diminished. She dodges their clumsy blows, and cuts their throats. She parries their thrusts, and impales their hearts. Some cry out for mercy, hoping that there's a heart behind her glowing red eyes. In return, she gives them the quick death that Arthas denied her. Using these blades is like a dance, one that she has not forgotten the steps to. It was what her swordsmaster called the Path of Daggers. He taught her to see. To sense. To hear. To use those big pointy ears for something. To be not one with "donkey ears," but "dagger ears."

It's a lesson that's served her in life as well as death. And there's a satisfaction to be had in killing these sheep. It was from their bastard kind that Arthas came into the world. From their kind that the greatest evil to have blighted these lands was spawned by his whore of a mother. The Legion is defeated, and Arthas has driven them out, but here, it doesn't matter. The end result is the same. Be it by the hands of demons or dead, the sheep are culled. And before long, the battle is over. The dead stand in silence, victorious. And she stands among the bodies of her dance partners, none of them having proven worthy.

_Hold._

She obeys, remembering what it was like to dance. To be one that the people looked on in awe rather than terror. It was another life ago. When she still had a life to live.

The Scourge get to work. Ghouls begin to feed on the bodies of the fallen. Acolytes bring up the meat wagons, and the skeletons throw the bodies into them. The battle is over. The corpses will be kept fresh until they are needed, whether it be for a ghoul's teeth, for a sword to find a hand, or for a necromancer to show just how much they love the dead. She frowns, looking for any sign of Arthas and his lich. They aren't to be found. Odd. Even if the sheep here were bleating too hard for Arthas, she'd have thought he'd might have walked among them. But-

_Hang on._

Her ears pick it up. Movement in one of the burnt-out houses near her. She follows its sound, the blade in her hand. It takes her awhile to shift through the burnt out wood, keeping her eyes on the beams. It takes far less time for her to find the source of the sound. One that she looks upon with bemusement.

"Hello little lamb," she whispers.

It's a child. Three, four, five? She can't be sure. Humans grow up so fast, and they die so quickly – she's seen more kings of Lordaeron live and die than she has fingers. But this one's still alive. His blonde hair's stained with soot and blood, his blue eyes are wide, and his lips are trembling. He's a survivor in the land of the dead. Which only means one thing.

Nothing happens. She frowns, waiting to hear the voice. That drive, that need to serve the Lich King, regardless of her own wants. But nothing happens. His voice is gone. Her will is her own.

_I'm free._

The revelation hits her like a collapsed wall. She's free. Somehow, the Lich King's grip on her has been lost. She takes a breath, the ash-filled air making its way through her putrefied throat. She's free. And she has simultaneously one idea of what to do with that freedom, and also no idea. She knows what she wants. But how to do it. And when. Is it only her chains that are broken, or her sisters as well? How many walking sacks of meat could she call to her side?

She cuts the lamb's throat, giving it the mercy of a swift death. She can't risk it alerting the Scourge to her newfound freedom. Also, with his hair, eyes, and everything else, he reminded her of Arthas. She's free, and that means being able to take some satisfaction where she can. It means being able to walk her own path once more. The Path of Daggers.

And drive it through the heart of the one who caused her own to stop beating.


End file.
